


When You're Small

by cagethesongbird



Series: eat your veggies [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: (but like. toddler hurt/comfort. its nothing), Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Caretaking, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Diapers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Stuffed Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagethesongbird/pseuds/cagethesongbird
Summary: Tyrell and Elliot spend their day together, as they often do.Elliot's cute, and Tyrell loves him very much.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson & Tyrell Wellick, Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick
Series: eat your veggies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721776
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	When You're Small

**Author's Note:**

> just some cute shit that's been rattling around my brain lately. title stolen from the mgmt song 
> 
> enjoy <3

“Um,” Elliot says, ducking his head a bit. Tyrell looks up from the shitty tabloid he’d been flipping through – because old habits die hard – and smiles at his baby.

“Yes, _sötnos?”_ he asks, using his favorite term of endearment, which literally translated to ‘sweet nose’ in English. He didn’t use it often when Elliot was Big – preferring _Älskling,_ which was used in relation to a lover or spouse. _Sötnos_ was more for things you found cute, or for babies and children. Right now, Elliot counts as both.

“Um, look?” Elliot asks softly. No matter how many times they do this, he’s always a little shy right after he makes that transition from Responsible Autonomous Adult to toddler. He’s got a pacifier clipped to his soft, yellow t-shirt, and socks with little kitty cat designs on his feet.

He runs his baby blanket across his cheek a few times, openly nervous. Tyrell had noticed early on he was easy to read like this. Instead of holding it in, like when big, little Elliot let his many emotions play out on his face.

In the hand not clutching his blanket, for which Tyrell periodically thanks his mother for teaching him to sew, is a piece of printer paper. He holds it out to Tyrell, still not looking him in the eyes.

“Picture,” he explains, pointing. His voice is still soft, cautious.

Tyrell looks down. On the sheet of paper is, indeed, a picture, done in a wobbly, crayoned toddler hand. It’s a clumsy portrait of the two of them as stick figures, sitting on the floor, surrounded by scribbly renditions of Elliot’s toys. They both wear big smiley-face grins.

_I’m all yellow, and he’s all brown,_ Tyrell notes in amusement. When picking their skin colors, Elliot had apparently gone for the most obvious difference he could.

“Oh, it’s beautiful, baby,” Tyrell gushes. “Can I put it on the fridge?”

Elliot lights up like a Christmas tree. “Likes?” he wants to know.

“I love it,” Tyrell says sincerely. He scoops Elliot into a hug and peppers his cheeks with kisses. “Thank you so much.”

Elliot giggles quietly, embarrassed but proud. He worked really hard on that picture!

Sometimes it was strange, going back and forth between working really hard on stopping a DDoS attack that could affect millions (Elliot freelanced his hacking work occasionally. It wasn’t “legal”, but he wasn’t worried about that. It was helping people.) and working really hard to color a picture. But mostly Elliot found himself relieved, to have this. To have Tyrell so genuinely excited about his Crayola masterpiece.

It takes a serious weight off his shoulders, to be able to pack it all away. Trauma – for which he was working really hard on, thank you – hacking, adulting, all of it. Just to be _little,_ just to be taken care of the way he never really was. Without any ulterior motives, and completely free of thinly veiled anger.

“We can put it right in the middle,” Tyrell says, starting to rise from the couch. Elliot wasn’t much of a conversationalist when he was small, so Tyrell kept up a running dialogue for the both of them. “Would you like to pick out a magnet?”

Elliot shakes his head. He wants to be right here, now. He stops Tyrell before he can get up by unceremoniously climbing into his lap.

“Oh,” Tyrell murmurs. He runs a hand through Elliot’s wavy hair, pushing it back from his face. It still smells like baby shampoo, from his bath the previous night. Tyrell sighs, relaxing.

Elliot is warm weight where he settles on Tyrell’s chest. He’s popped his binky back in his mouth, and is loudly working it around.

“Not going to let me get up, huh?” Tyrell's voice is soft — affectionate. He doesn't mind being trapped, not one bit. 

Elliot mumbles something that sounds definitively negative, laying his head on Tyrell's shoulder. Tyrell's arms come up around him immediately; one arm under his bottom and one around his middle.

He rocks them gently, vaguely wondering if they make rocking chairs for two grown people. Elliot wouldn't like that, he knows, as his better half is all about "not going overboard". Which, of course, is exactly what Tyrell is itching to do.

Either way, his tabloid lays forgotten while he loves on a lapful of baby. 

Elliot rubs his cheek against Tyrell’s shirt collar – which could hardly be comfortable, considering the buttons. That was another thing Tyrell quickly picked up on: Elliot _loved_ things that felt nice.

It was a trait that definitely held on when he was big, evident by the hoodie, as well as his affinity for shirts that had been washed so many times, they were basically soft rags.

More than once, Tyrell had to draw a line in the sand and get Elliot a new package of black shirts, as his had all the shape beaten out of them – to a frankly ridiculous degree. 

And Tyrell lived to spoil, okay? He doesn’t make as much money as he did once, but he’s still pretty loaded, considering they live in New York City high rise. Having an excuse to buy Elliot loads of soft blankets and toys – the ones that cost an idiotic amount because they were fair-trade cotton or artisanal, or what the hell ever – was like a dream come true.

The inside of their bedroom closet looks like a combination toy/blanket store, and they were both pretty okay with that.

Elliot’s current favorite is a soft green baby blanket, trimmed with a thick satin edge. It’s been stitched up by Tyrell a few times, as he couldn’t manage to remember where he bought it from to just get another. And swap it out when Elliot wasn’t looking, of course – toddler logic did not understand that sometimes, worn out blankies need to go to dumpster heaven.

He runs the current favorite over his nose and cheeks, sighing behind his binky. Tyrell pats his back, rocking them side to side every now and again. He glances back down at his tabloid.

They stay like that for a while, to the point Tyrell thinks Elliot may have fallen asleep. And that would be fine – he didn’t sleep well at night but would rarely go down for a voluntary nap.

Occasionally, Tyrell will even try to bait him when he's Big, with the old "oh, honey, come lay down with me" line. Because, shit. Elliot truly didn't sleep enough.

Usually, his sleep was fitful, tossing and turning through most of the night, and getting up to smoke a cig or two, before lying awake in Tyrell's arms until dawn. Tyrell was too transparent when he asked, though, and Elliot would scoff softly, telling him to lay down by himself. 

Tyrell thought he was probably young enough right now to warrant it, anyway, as he believed Elliot fell somewhere between two and four. So, he wasn’t going to disturb him if he did nod off. Let sleeping babies lie, and whatnot.

No dice, though. The moment Tyrell shifts just a little, Elliot is awake, peering at him with those big, endearing eyes. He blinks, fidgets, and tugs his binky out of his mouth, getting ready to speak.

“Um,” he says, looking up at Tyrell. He squirms and fidgets, his eyes filling with big, frustrated tears.

“Take your time,” Tyrell soothes. Sometimes, words were hard. He could understand that.

“Am wet,” Elliot manages, immediately shoving his binky back in his mouth. He looks everywhere but at Tyrell. A few token tears dribble down his cheeks, and he sniffles.

Tyrell wipes them away, smiling sadly. All that, for a change?

“You know that’s just fine,” Tyrell tells him. “I’ve told you how many times that I don’t mind?”

Elliot doesn’t respond, but Tyrell didn’t expect him to. He still sometimes felt guilty, and Tyrell didn’t try to wrap his mind around it. It just was, and Tyrell did his best to make him feel better.

Tyrell has mastered the art of getting up with an Elliot on your hip, and he does, shuffling into the bedroom. Flipper yips at him as he passes, and he rolls his eyes at her.

“You know me by now, dog,” he mutters. Elliot pats Tyrell’s cheek with a soft, sleepy hand.

“You?” he mutters, like he was confirming it.

“Yes,” Tyrell says. “Me. Tyrell. Your _storebror.”_

 _Storebror_ – or ‘big brother’ in Swedish. That’s what Tyrell thought of himself as, more or less. They both found ‘Daddy’ to be way too weird, and way too sexual, for what it was that they were doing. ‘Caregiver’ felt too informal, or like a job title. Elliot just called him Tyrell, anyway – or _‘Rell,_ his lisping approximation.

Tyrell had never been one for labels, anyway. It was good, it was theirs, and he didn’t need to be called one thing or another to know what he meant to Elliot. And, of course, what Elliot meant to him.

Elliot hums, satisfied.

“Sleepy,” he admits, rubbing his eyes.

Tyrell lays him on the bed, glancing at the clock above Elliot’s desk in the corner of their room. His monitors hum happily at the terminal, waiting for him to log back on.

“It’s early, still,” Tyrell says. It wasn’t even eleven, yet. “You wanna take a nap?”

Tyrell half-expects him to get pissy at the _N-A-P_ word, but Elliot just nods. “Sleepy,” he repeats.

“Nap it is,” Tyrell says softly.

He changes Elliot’s diaper quickly and efficiently, more than practiced by now. Elliot is a dead weight, in his doze, and Tyrell can’t be bothered in trying to pull his pants back up. He collects Elliot into his arms and pulls him to lay properly in bed, head on the pillow and baby blanket tucked under his chin.

Tyrell quickly pulls the blinds to block out the late morning light, reaches for Elliot’s binky where it'd fallen in the covers. He offers it by pressing it to his lips, and Elliot accepts without opening his eyes. Tyrell brushes his hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs, and tiptoes out to pin Elliot’s picture on the fridge.


End file.
